“Beware the beat of the cloth-wrapped feet!”

dancing on the ceiling 

My stairwell is dimly lit by a big skylight, its surface encrusted with aeons of birdshit and whatever garbage the people in the tower block opposite have chucked onto our roof. Seagulls alight on this opaque screen and walk about on it, visible from below only as disembodied sets of webbed feet.

It’s rather like a Disney version of Hitchcock’s THE LODGER.

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